


cherry coke and sketches

by serenfire



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Happy, M/M, Picnics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 04:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6641668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenfire/pseuds/serenfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky takes Steve to a surprise picnic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cherry coke and sketches

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to see CA:CW in TWO DAYS and I just needed to write something super cute and happy and not worry about it. Also, Cherry Coke is the BEST ~~and not sold where I live so here's me living vicariously~~.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> @anyone I know irl: do not read thanks

It’s a perfect summer day when a knock sounds on Steve’s door.

Being a perfect day, Steve is, of course, completely asleep, drool on his pillow, hair stuck across his forehead, a sketchbook on the floor, having dropped from his hands around two in the morning. Light streams in from the gigantic windows of the Avengers tower, and Steve blearily wakes up.

The knock sounds again on his door. 

“Coming!” Steve says, and promptly rolls off his bed, stretching his tired limbs. He looks down at his pajamas: all he is wearing is a ratty pair of sweatpants he fell asleep in, a ripped hole over his knee. Whatever.

Steve opens the door to his room (more like a penthouse), and in front of him stands Bucky, clutching a wooden box with his prosthetic arm and tapping arrhythmically with his shoes. “Hey,” Bucky grins. “Want to go out with me today?”

“Okay,” Steve says, checking his watchless arm. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to noon,” Bucky says, teasing, poking Steve gently. “Stay up late again?”

“Yeah.” When Steve sees the concern on Bucky’s face, he amends his answer. “Not because of nightmares or anything -- I was just drawing.”

“Ah,” Bucky says softly. “Remembering, then.”

“Nah. Just, you know, drawing. I’ll show it to you when we go out, yeah?”

Bucky grins even more, his eyes crinkling at the edges, matching with the ponytail his hair is tied up in. “Sure. I’d like that.”

Steve grins back, contagiously. “See you in ten.”

*

After a much-needed shower and a short wardrobe crisis, Steve emerges in the lobby of the Avengers tower in a clean shirt and slacks, his last drawing neatly folded in his back pocket.

Bucky is sitting and talking to Pepper in front of an elevator, and from a distance, Steve can see the excitement in his eyes, the larger than life gestures of his flesh and blood arm as he talks about something that has her sharing the same joy he feels, his metal prosthetic still holding the wooden box.

Steve wonders what’s in the wooden box. He has an idea, but he’s not going to pry. Instead, he watches Bucky talk to Pepper, wave her off to her afternoon job doing something CEO-y with Tony, and turn around to lock eyes with Steve.

Bucky jogs over. “You ready?” he asks, putting on his shades. Steve does the same.

“Sure,” Steve says easily. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s a surprise,” Bucky waves him off as they walk out the front doors of the Avengers tower to the flash of paparazzi. Bucky is always so calm in the face of the press, but Steve still wants to cover his face and hide behind other New Yorkers walking, so they don’t get candids of him. He still wants to be normal, sometimes.

Instead of catching a car from Happy, who gives stink-eyes to the few paparazzi brave enough to get within ten feet of two Avengers, Bucky leads Steve across the street to an enclosed parking space, and, with a twinkle in his eye, to a pristine Harley Davidson in a corner.

Bucky takes the keys from his jacket pocket and twirls them. “Want to ride?” he says.

“Yes,” Steve nods as fast as he can. “Definitely yes.”

Bucky slips the key into the ignition. “Then come on, partner.”

Steve climbs on the motorcycle seat behind Bucky, as the man fits the wooden box snugly between his feet. The only way Steve would feel more like a rockstar is if he would be wearing leather.

Steve accepts a helmet from Bucky, and puts his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. “Where are we going?” he asks as Bucky pulls out of the parking lot and turns onto a congested New York City road.

“Central Park,” Bucky says, and won’t give Steve any more details about the outing. Steve’s last drawing is in his pocket.

As they ride through the summer heat pooling around them, the sun beating down and sticking to their shirts, passing through lanes of taxis and bicyclists and hipsters and the twenty-first century, Steve remembers the last time he rode on a motorcycle: when he was trying to rescue Bucky from HYDRA.

It’s been two glorious years since then, and Steve has never regretted a single day. And now, with his arms around Bucky, who the doctors say remembers eighty percent of his life pre-1942, Steve couldn’t be any happier.

Tall buildings swirl around them, throngs of people in vivid colors, holding parasols, texting, photographing, laughing, talking, driving all around them, and Steve can’t get enough as they make their way to the outskirts of Central Park, where Bucky parks the motorcycle.

“You sure it won’t get stolen?” Steve frowns as they disembark.

Bucky just points to the reporter trying and failing to hide behind a nearby tree. “I’m sure she will make sure no property theft occurs. Hey, Al!” He waves his shining prosthetic hand at the reporter.

The reporter Al waves back.

Bucky gestures to the motorcycle. “Protect this for us?” he asks.

Al gives Bucky a thumbs-up, and then says, “In return, mind giving me a clear shot of you both sometime?”

Steve takes off his sunglasses and tries to frown at her. “Not on your life,” he calls, sweetly.

Laughing, Bucky drags him away.

*

They find a nice spot by a large tree, and Bucky reaches inside his wooden box and pulls out a mat to lay down, then sprawls on the red-and-white checkered fabric. Steve looks at him, the slats of light falling between the leaves above him, a jacket and pants on, covering up his prosthetic up to his fingertips, sunglasses perched on his nose, what’s undeniably a picnic basket in his arms.

Perfect.

Steve’s fingers are itching to break out a sketchbook and draw Bucky in his lazy position, enjoying the sunshine and the shade and nature.

Bucky snaps at him a few times to get his attention. “Cap,” he says, grinning, “you going to join me here, or are you just going to watch?”

Steve sits, reaching between them to open the wooden box. Inside are packaged sandwiches and two Cherry Cokes.

“It’s from the deli on 41st. Do you like BLT?” Bucky says. “I didn’t remember what kind of sandwich you liked, so I asked around, but according to Tony you only eat protein bars and vegetable shakes, so it wasn’t very helpful. I just got you what I liked.”

Steve looks up at him. “I love BLTs,” he promises. “Trust me.”

Bucky visibly relaxes at that, and Steve can almost feel him slotting that bit of information into place next to the patches of his life he doesn’t remember. ‘Steve likes BLTs’ goes next to ‘Steve was germophobic before the war but now is a total slob.’

Steve lies next to him on the mat, holding his BLT and Cherry Coke and watching the breeze of Central Park flutter through the tree. In the distance, he can hear the few other people in the Park biking through the paths, or walking through the foliage. No one is close enough to notice or disturb them.

“Do you ever think of the old me?” Bucky asks out of the blue, between bites of rye and cheese. “You know, before I was drafted. Before -- before you went to college, even. Do you remember me?”

“As much as I think about every other part of you, I guess,” Steve shrugs. He lies on his side to see Bucky, sprawled out, sunglasses shoved up on his forehead, chewing anxiously. “I don’t obsess about that part of you, I guess. Why? Do you think about it a lot?”

“Nah,” Bucky says, reaching up to wipe a bit of tomato off the corner of his mouth with a metal finger, and then eat it.

“Hey, you have a bit more right there,” Steve points to the edge of Bucky’s chin, where three-day stubble is beginning to peek out. “I’ll just get it for you.” 

He reaches for the bit of leafy green, and ends up pressed against Bucky, leaning over him, concentrating on wiping the fleck of lettuce off his face.

“Hey, you,” Bucky says, beaming wildly.

“Hey, you,” Steve counters, and leans down to kiss him, a light nip that tastes like mint and bacon. Underneath his hands is the checkered mat and Bucky’s soft jacket, and Bucky’s stubble tickles his chin. Perfect.

The moment is, of course, ruined by the flash of a camera somewhere to Steve’s left. He rolls off Bucky and glares at the offending party -- probably a college student Snapchatting this moment for their friends.

Instead of a college student, Al waves back at them, her professional camera and tripod set up. “Sorry,” she shouts as she waves, not sounding sorry at all. “But I wasn’t going to watch your motorcycle for nothing, Barnes.”

“For nothing, my ass,” Bucky grumbles good-naturedly, flipping Al off. “What about the eternal glory of being personally addressed by a celebrity? Fuck off, Al! And watch my bike!”

Al salutes them, checking her photos. “I guess I can. Got some good quality pics. Hey, who should I sell them to first? Do you think something prestigious, like the Wall Street Journal? Nah, they’ve been bought by Hillary. What about -- E! Online?”

“Fuck off!” Bucky calls, louder, and Al walks away, still chuckling to herself. “Privacy at last,” he grumbles.

Steve finishes his sandwich and opens his Cherry Coke. “You don’t seem to be particularly bothered,” he notes.

Bucky shrugs. “I’ve found it helpful to keep a few members of the press on my side, after, you know, being painted as a terrorist and war criminal for most my life. I could use some positive press.”

“Well, making out with Captain America would certainly do that.”

“It’s not even close to the first time they’ve caught us. Probably not going to be the last.”

“Probably,” Steve agrees.

“Hopefully,” Bucky insists.

“Hey, I want to show you something,” Steve says, handing him the half-drunk can of Cherry Coke. Bucky takes a swig, and Steve fishes the sketch out of his back pocket. “My drawing last night.”

“Right,” Bucky says, wrapping his flesh and blood arm around Steve’s shoulders. “The one that knocked you out of your regimented schedule.”

“Come on,” Steve protests. “I haven’t had a set schedule since the last time someone possessed Wanda. But, yes, I guess. Here.”

He opens the piece of paper and shows it to Bucky. For some reason, there are butterflies churning in his stomach. But that wouldn’t make any sense, because he’s not nervous. Right?

Bucky reaches out a single metal finger and touches the portrait drawn from memory on the paper, smearing charcoal lines of his own face, deep in sleep, peaceful and relaxed. Just like Bucky is now.

He traces down the smooth lines of his body melting into the bed, the giant windows of the Avengers tower in the background. Just the way Steve remembered him from the last time they slept together. One arm thrown across the pillows, the other holding someone’s hand, out of the frame. Steve’s.

Steve remembered when he had woken up before Bucky, a rare occurrence, and got to bask in the pre-dawn peace when Bucky didn’t have an all-consuming nightmare, or wake up with night sweats. He was perfectly still, breath coming in and out evenly, the sign that he had truly healed. He could rest again.

Bucky elbows Steve out of his reverie. “You said you weren’t remembering last night, bastard,” he says fondly. “Because I’m pretty sure you were thinking of something in that big lone bed of yours.”

“Hey, I’m not alone on the nights you can convince JARVIS to let you in,” Steve says amiably.

Bucky just looks at Steve’s face, like it betrays something deep within him. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll come over more often; make you not alone more.”

“Nice,” Steve says, and they lean in for a kiss at the same moment, this time tasting of carbonated water and syrup.

Bucky reaches for Steve’s hand and they hold each other, their beating hearts mixing with each other, and Bucky gently folds the sketch and gives it back to Steve.

“Thanks for sharing,” he says.

“Oh! You can keep it,” Steve says, giving it back just as quickly. “I made it for you.”

Bucky puts it in his pocket gingerly. “Thank you,” he says.

Steve leans over to kiss him on the cheek. “Anytime.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Here's my [tumblr](http://www.trans-reyskywalker.tumblr.com)!


End file.
